Chapter 20
Beckham
I'm still tasting her on my lips when I wake up, hard as a fucking rock and alone in my bed.
The memory of last night plays on repeat in my head—Hennessy curled against me in the passenger seat of my truck, her breathing soft and even as she slept.
I watched her for longer than I should have, memorizing the way her lashes fanned across her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, the complete vulnerability of her face in sleep.
I didn't have the heart to wake her when we reached her apartment complex.
Instead, I'd gathered her into my arms, her small body fitting against my chest like she was made to be there.
She'd stirred slightly, nuzzling her face into my neck as I carried her up three flights of stairs because her shitty building doesn't have a working elevator.
“Mmm, Beckham,” she murmured, still half-asleep as I fished her keys from her purse.
“Shhh, trouble. Almost there.” I shouldered open her door, navigating through her small apartment to what I assumed was her bedroom.
The restraint it took not to crawl into that bed with her nearly broke me. But I'd laid her down gently, pulled off her heels, and covered her with a blanket. Then I stood there like a fucking creep, watching her sleep for a full minute before forcing myself to leave, locking the door behind me.
Now I'm staring at my ceiling, cock throbbing and mind racing with images of what could have happened if I'd stayed.
I need a cold shower and about ten miles on the treadmill to get my head straight.
She was supposed to be my rival’s daughter. My one night to give in to everything I’ve ever wanted. Instead she’s my religion, and I’ll burn the whole fucking league to worship her.
I'm halfway through my pre-workout shake when my phone buzzes on the counter. My heart rate spikes when I see her name on the screen.
Troublemaker
I am SO sorry for falling asleep on you last night! Most embarrassing date move ever.
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips as I type back.
You were tired.
Still mortifying. Did you seriously CARRY me to my apartment??
You weigh nothing. Wasn't a big deal.
My hero But seriously, thank you. Most guys would've just woken me up.
I'm not most guys plus you’re cute when you’re unconscious. Quieter, too.
Fuck you, Kingston.
I stare at my phone, trying to figure out how to respond without sounding like a desperate teenager. Before I can decide, she texts again.
So…I was thinking about how I could make it up to you.
My pulse quickens at the implication in those words.
Is that right?
Mmhmm. I'm a big believer in proper apologies.
And what exactly does a proper apology look like?
I have some ideas. I’ll text you later, Coach King.
I stare at her message for a moment, trying to ignore the heat pooling in my groin. With a grunt, I toss my phone onto the counter and head for the shower. No point in overthinking it—I've got a full day of practice and meetings ahead.
By the time I get back to my apartment, it's past eight and I'm fucking exhausted.
Three hours of practice followed by film review and strategy sessions with my coaching staff has left my body drained and my patience thin.
I kick off my shoes at the door and head straight for the fridge, grabbing a beer and twisting off the cap.
The first sip hits my throat just as my phone vibrates in my pocket.
You home?
Just walked in.
I take another swig of beer, waiting for her response. Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear again.
Good. I'm outside your door.
The beer bottle freezes halfway to my mouth. I stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure I'm not hallucinating.
“Fuck,” I mutter, setting the bottle down and running a hand through my hair. I glance down at my wrinkled coaching gear, suddenly aware that I probably smell like sweat and frustration.
There's a soft knock at my door, confirming this isn't some weird hallucination. I stride across the apartment and yank it open.
Hennessy stands there in ripped jeans and my hoodie. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and she's clutching a paper bag in one hand. She looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had.
“Surprise,” she says, a hint of uncertainty in her smile. “Is this…okay? I probably should have given you more warning.”
I step back, pulling the door wider. “Get in here.”
She steps inside, clutching the bag to her chest like a shield. The scent hits me immediately—something rich and savory that makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.
“I brought you dinner,” she says, lifting the bag slightly. “Sopa de Albondigas. My abuela made it and sent me home with enough to feed an army.”
“You brought me dinner?” I can't keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Yeah.” She shifts her weight, suddenly looking uncertain. “If you've already eaten, you can just have it later. Or if you don't like Mexican food, that's totally okay too. I should've asked first.”
Her fingers pick at the sleeve of my hoodie, tugging at a loose thread. There's something fucking adorable about seeing her nervous like this.
“I'm starving,” I tell her, taking the bag from her hands. “Haven't eaten since noon.”
We stand side by side at my kitchen counter as I open the container. Steam rises, carrying the scent of tomatoes, spices, and meatballs. My stomach rumbles again, loud enough for her to hear.
I dip the spoon in and take a bite; the flavors exploding across my tongue—rich broth, tender meat, perfectly cooked vegetables. I can't help the moan that escapes me.
“Fuck, that's good,” I groan, immediately going for another spoonful. And another. And another.
Before I know it, I've devoured half the container, eating like I haven't seen food in days. When I finally come up for air, Hennessy is watching me with a pleased smile.
“I take it you like it?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Your grandmother is a fucking savant.”
“I'll tell her you said so,” she laughs, hopping up to sit on my counter. “Though maybe I'll clean up the language a bit.”
“Probably wise.” I continue eating, slower now but still steadily working through the soup. “This is better than anything I've had in months.”
“Abuela would be thrilled to hear that. She's always trying to fatten everyone up.” Her legs swing slightly, heels bumping against my cabinets. “She took one look at me today and declared I was too skinny, yet again. Made me eat three tamales before I could escape.”
I eye her curves, perfectly outlined in those tight jeans. “There's nothing too skinny about you.”
A blush creeps across her cheeks. “Such a charmer.”
“Just honest.” I finish the last of the soup, scraping the container clean. “Thank you for this. Seriously.”
“You're welcome.” She watches me as I rinse the container in the sink. “Long day?”
“The fucking longest.” I lean against the counter opposite her.
She steps closer, reaching up to wipe a drop of broth from the corner of my mouth with her thumb. The casual intimacy of the gesture stops me cold.
“Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back like she's been burned. “You had a little...”
I catch her wrist before she can retreat, holding her in place. “Don't apologize.”
“Beckham,” she whispers, and it sounds like a question.
I set the empty container on the counter without breaking eye contact. “Yeah?”
“I didn't just come here to bring you soup.”
“I figured.” My thumb traces circles on the inside of her wrist.
She bites her lip, and then her expression shifts to something playful. “I actually came over because your apartment is depressing as fuck.” She gestures around at my bare walls and minimal furniture. “It's like a prison cell in here, but with better appliances.”
“What?” I drop her wrist, taken aback.
“Seriously, do you even live here? There's nothing on your walls. No personal touches.” She hops off the counter and spins around, arms wide. “And it's December, for God's sake! Not a single holiday decoration.”
I stare at her, completely blindsided by this turn in conversation. “I don't do decorations.”
“Clearly.” She rolls her eyes. “That's why I'm here. You need a Christmas tree. Lights. Maybe some garland.” Her eyes light up as she speaks, her hands moving animatedly. “Just a little holiday cheer to make this place feel less like a furniture showroom and more like a home.”
“A Christmas tree?” I repeat, like she's suggested I install a fucking roller coaster in my living room.
“Yes, a Christmas tree! They're these magical things with branches and ornaments.” She's grinning now, practically bouncing on her toes. “There's a lot that stays open late near the campus. We could go right now.”
I open my mouth to say no. I don't do Christmas trees. I don't do decorations. I don't do holiday cheer. But the way she's looking at me—eyes bright with excitement, smile wide and hopeful—makes the refusal die in my throat.
“Alright,” I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “Let's go get a Christmas tree.”
She actually squeals—a high-pitched sound of pure joy that should annoy me but somehow doesn't—and grabs my hand, tugging me toward the door. Then she freezes, her expression falling.
“Shit, I'm sorry.” She drops my hand. “You've had a long day. We can do this some other time.”
Something animalistic surges through me at the disappointment in her voice. Before I can overthink it, I growl low in my throat, bend down, and scoop her up, throwing her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry.
“Beckham!” she yelps, half laughing, half protesting as I grab my keys and wallet with my free hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting a fucking Christmas tree,” I mutter, walking out of my apartment.
“You are such a caveman,” she says, smacking my back lightly.
I don't put her down until we reach my truck. When I set her on her feet, her cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes are sparkling with mischief.
“That was completely unnecessary,” she says, but she's grinning.